


as long as you'll stay

by therealvalkyrie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Rape, Soft Oikawa, Suicidal Ideation, emphasis on the comfort, implied use of date-rape drugs, throwing up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29869326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealvalkyrie/pseuds/therealvalkyrie
Summary: When you call Oikawa after being sexually assaulted outside a bar, he comes to get you and helps you through the worst of it.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Kudos: 33





	as long as you'll stay

It’s two rings before Oikawa picks up. Your chest deflates in relief as his lilting voice crackles through the phone.

“Hey, dollface, what’s up?”

“O-Oikawa?” You will your voice to be steady, but your body is trembling so hard that it comes out shaky anyway, raspy and unsure. It’s nearly been thirty minutes since you were… since you ended up here, but you still can’t get your heart to stop beating a tattoo inside your ribs.

“What’s wrong, angel?” He sounds more serious, and the background chatter of two voices ceases.

“Could you, um, c-could you come pick me up?” You close your eyes and lean your head back against the brick wall of the alley, hugging your ripped blouse closer around your body. “I-I’m so cold….” And you are  _ so _ cold, icy tendrils of it seeping from the concrete under your ass through your thin skirt.

“Where are you now?”

Where are you? The bar. The bar where Cindy works, with the good  _ tapas _ . “I’m outside that, that, the bar where we went f-for, for New Year’s?” He’ll know the one.

“We can be there in twenty, okay, baby?”

You flinch at the pet name.  _ Don’t call me baby. _

_ “C’mon, baby, c’mere. That’s it. God, baby, you’re so pretty when you’re out of it.”  _ The voice is slimy, saccharine sweet, and completely wrong as it chokes your breathing. You’re  _ so cold _ ….

“Can you go inside and wait for us? Can you do that?

“I… what?” You can’t think straight, your head is so heavy, tilting forward so that your chin rests on your chest. You crack your eyes open again and stare at the shifting wall across from you. It makes you dizzy, but you can’t look away as Oikawa’s words float in one ear and out the other. It’s nice, his voice is so… soothing. Smooth.  _ Scared _ . He sounds scared. Why?

“Tooru,” you slur into the phone, “Who’s  _ us _ ?”

“It’s just me and Iwa, sweetheart, we’re on our way. Are you inside now?”

Inside? Why would you go back there? What a dumb question. It’s better out here, without grabbing hands and disorienting lights.

He’s saying your name, urgently, too fast, and it makes your head hurt. The phone drops out of your hand and the case cracks on the concrete. It’s so  _ cold _ , you’re so  _ tired _ , you could just tilt your head back and sleep if you wanted to. Yes, sleep would be better than this. Your hands go still in your lap, no longer shivering. Your breathing grows shallow.

It’s a full ten minutes between when you close your eyes and when Oikawa and Iwaizumi skid to a stop in front of the bar and scramble out of the car. They ask the brawny, blond bouncer first.

“Have you seen her?” Oikawa asks, holding up a photo from your Instagram. It’s an older one but shows your face clearly: you’re smiling, lit up by the rising sun on a dewy Saturday morning when he’d managed to get you out of bed for a hike. It’s one of his favorites.

Blondie squints, looking closer. “Yeah, she came in earlier with some friends. Left about an hour ago with some guy, looked like her boyfriend.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” Iwaizumi cuts in as Oikawa opens his mouth, looking murderous.

The bouncer scratches his chin in thought. “Think I saw ‘em go that way,” he jerks a thumb to the right, “but can’t be completely sure. She in some kind of trouble?”

“Something like that,” Oikawa snarls before stalking off in the direction indicated. After a couple of steps, he breaks out into a jog, calling your name down the street. Iwaizumi takes off after him, opening his phone to turn on a flashlight.

They barely get two hundred feet before he shines it down the alley next to the bar and lights up your slumped body against the wall.

“Oh, my  _ God. _ ”

Faintly, you register hands pulling your body up and against someone. A voice shouting,  _ two _ voices shouting. What are they saying? You try to listen.  _ Is he back? _

“God, she’s so cold, Iwa,” you’re cradled against a body, a hand on the back of your neck. Something soft is draped over your bare shoulders. “Sweetheart, can you hear me? It’s me, I’m here, you’re okay.”

Me. Who’s me?  _ I am me.  _ Then who’s that?  _ I don’t know!  _

You try to move your limbs, to lift your head to see who it is, but you just feel so goddamn heavy. A frustrated, whiny groan leaves your throat. Whoever’s holding you stiffens and tilts your head back.

“Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

_ I can hear you. Who are you?  _ Your eyes crack open to see Oikawa over you, his eyes wide and frantic. “Tooru,” you manage to breathe, “you came.”

He lets out a breathless, hysterical laugh of relief. “Yes, yes, I came, I’m here. We’re gonna get you to a hospital.”

“Why? I’m so tired….” your eyes flutter, mascaraed lashes sticking to your wet cheeks.

Oikawa jostles you. “Keep your eyes open, you can’t sleep now,” he coaxes and pulls you more securely into his strong arms.

“The ambulance is on its way,” another voice states from above you.  _ Who’s that? _

You shift weakly, your head lolling forward and onto Oikawa’s shoulder. “Who…?”

Iwaizumi squats to your level, ducking his head so you can see him. 

“It’s Iwaizumi, it’s just me.” His face is dark and serious, his phone is pressed to his ear. He addresses Oikawa, “The dispatcher says we should get her somewhere warm.”

Warm.  _ Warm _ . Why? You feel fine, just tired… if you could just lie back down… and go to sleep it’d all be okay. But your body is being lifted, manipulated to be cradled in Oikawa’s arms as he stands. It’s disorienting, dizzying, and you whine and rest your heavy head against his shoulder. You close your eyes against the streetlights and tune out the voices that crowd around, too loud, too fast, too much.

Warmth seeps into your skin and all of a sudden you’re shivering again, shaking violently against Oikawa, curling into his radiating body heat. Something crinkly is tucked over you, the sensation prickling at your skin unpleasantly. You writhe to get away from it, but arms hold you fast.

“Shh, sh, baby, it’s okay, it’s just a space blanket,” he soothes in your ear.  _ Baby. _

“D-don’t, don’t, don’t say— c-call me that,” you stutter out through chattering teeth. “Don’t, don’t  _ say _ —”

“Okay. Okay, I won’t call you that, I’m sorry,” his voice is tight with emotion, apologetic, anguished.

Another voice enters your sphere of awareness. It’s smooth, professional, even. Asking questions that Oikawa responds to. Hands gently touch your face and you flinch away, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. The voice says your name, coaxingly.  _ How do you know that? _

“I just need to check your pupils, it’ll be quick and painless, I promise,” the voice says, its hands tipping your chin back. A thumb lifts your right eyelid and a bright light flashes in your eye. “Okay, one more.” The left eye is blinded next. “They’re even and responsive, that’s a good sign.”

“Good.”

“And she’s been talking?”

“Just a little— and she recognized me.”

“That’s also a good sign. Are you her boyfriend?”

“No, just a friend.”

“Did she come here with you?”

“No, she called me, from the alley we found her in. Iwaizumi has her phone, now.”

“Hmm. Sweetheart,” a soft hand on your cheek prompts your eyes to crack open again, the white afterimage of the bright light floating in your vision. A woman’s face swims behind it, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a kind set to her mouth. “Do you know this man?”

_ She means Tooru. _

“Y-yes, he’s my friend. I c-called him and he came,” you confirm, your voice distant to your own ears.

“Okay, you can ride with us to the hospital. Let’s get her on the stretcher.”

You’re lifted again, and it’s a moment of a floating feeling in your gut before you’re being set down on a plastic-y surface. Oikawa tries to pull away, and you start to panic, your hands suddenly moving to clutch at him, your breathing jagged and shallow.

“T-Tooru, don’t, don’t leave me— you c-can’t—” you break off into gasping sobs, frantic eyes on his heartbroken ones, a death grip on his bomber jacket.

He glances up and away at someone fleetingly, then encircles your wrists with his hands.

“I’m not going anywhere, angel, but we’re going in the ambulance, so I have to put you down.” He’s leaning at an awkward angle over you, hip braced against the stretcher, his face barely half a foot from yours. “You gotta let me go.”

“N-no, no, no, please,” you beg, tears swimming in your eyes. He can’t leave, not when he came, not when you can’t think straight to save your life, not when there’s a pinching feeling behind your heart that makes your vision blur.

“I’m not leaving, I’m not, I promise,” he implores, thumb stroking over the pulse point of your wrist. “Here, hold my hand.” He slips his left hand up your right one, entangling his fingers in yours and coaxing them to relax from their grip. “I’m not leaving.”

“Okay,” you take a big gulping breath and allow him to pull your other hand away from his jacket, “okay.”

He straightens up, but, true to his word, clasps your right hand in both of his and stays by your side. When you settle back onto the tilted back of the stretcher, you’re met with the sympathetic smile of the ponytailed paramedic at your other side. You flinch at her sudden appearance and cast your eyes up to the ceiling.

“Okay, let’s get going,” she addresses someone else standing next to Oikawa. It’s another paramedic, a man, tall and broad with sharp blue eyes. You swallow back the bile that rises in your throat and grip Oikawa’s hands tighter as you’re wheeled out of a set of doors. You see as you exit the building, it’s the bar. Cindy, your friend and bartender, and the bouncer are standing by the door watching with horrified expressions.

You squeeze your eyes shut again, hot tears leaking from the corners. 

—

The bruises ringing your neck ache, deep and satisfying, when you poke at them, watching the way your flesh gives in the hospital bathroom mirror. You press harder with two fingers, under your jaw to feel your pulse there, strong and steady despite how incorporeal your body feels.

Further down your naked body, more bruises scatter across your breasts and thighs, in the shape of a harsh mouth and thick fingers. Turning around and craning your neck to catch a glimpse of your back, you see the scratches from the rough brick that he’d pushed you up against. Water drips across them, your hair freshly wet from a brief shower. It’s still a tangled mess, unsalvageable without conditioner, a wide-tooth comb, and a patient hour of brushing. You’ll deal with it when you get home.

_ Home. _ Your one-bedroom apartment, with your pile of laundry and your pile of work and your aching loneliness. You can already feel it taking root behind your sternum, even though Oikawa hasn’t left your side since you arrived at the hospital late last night, camping out in an uncomfortable chair while you talked to doctors, nurses, a psychiatrist, the police. He’s been trying his best, you can tell: holding your hand when he can and filling the gaps with mindless chatter. But he’s drained, a rare slope appearing in his normally perfect posture. 

Iwaizumi’s been in and out, too. Apparently, he was there when you called Oikawa last night from the alley and had offered to drive. He’s been infinitely helpful, if stoic, offering to drive to your place to get you new clothes, offering to fetch you all lunch, offering, offering,  _ offering…. _

And what can you offer in return? Despite Oikawa’s endless talking, you can only manage to offer an insincere smile or half a laugh before lapsing back into listening silence. He doesn’t seem to mind, but you feel guilty that he’s doing all the work while you sit there, rotting from the inside out.

You hastily rub your body dry with the scratchy white towel folded on a little table by the shower, then pull on the leggings and sweatshirt Iwaizumi fetched for you. You tuck your phone into the weird thigh pocket of the leggings, then pull on socks and sneakers.

When you open the bathroom door, Oikawa’s standing by the end of the bed, chatting with a pretty nurse. She’s laughing girlishly, weight on one hip and a clipboard held loosely in her arm. It grates at your ears, but you can’t really blame her; he tends to have that effect on people.

When he sees you, his wide grin drops to a gentler smile. “Are you all set to go, sweetheart?”

You nod, and the nurse holds out the clipboard and a pen.

“These are your discharge papers. We just need your signature here, here, and here,” she indicates, coming to stand beside you and watching to make sure you fill out the form correctly. “And, you are all set!”

“Thank you,” you murmur, handing back the clipboard and managing a small smile that you hope looks sincere.

“You have a good day, now.”

It’s an empty platitude — she knows as well as you that your day will continue to be utter shit — but there’s some comfort in the normalcy of the interaction.

The sun is just minutes away from setting when you exit into the parking lot. It casts an orange glare off the hospital’s many windows that makes your eyes ache.

“Iwaizumi’s parked over that way,” Oikawa points right, across the parking lot. “I told him we’re on our way.”

“Okay.” You fall in step beside him, legs carrying you on autopilot. It seems he doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence out here, and you’re grateful. If you can just let the buzzing at the back of your mind fill the space instead, then you’ll be okay. Won’t have to think.

You pass a man and his daughter on the sidewalk, and wonder briefly why he gives you a wide-eyed look until you remember you must look terrifying — hair wild, eyes red, neck bruised. You flip the hood of your sweatshirt up over your head and ignore the look Oikawa gives you. He doesn’t say anything, though, just sticks his hands in his pockets and rounds his shoulders. He looks almost adolescent like this. Unsure of himself.

Iwaizumi gets out and opens the passenger side door for you as you approach.

“That’s okay, Iwa, I’ll take the back,” you hum as you pass him, reaching for the back door handle.

“Iwa-chan, what a gentleman!” Oikawa exclaims as he approaches, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Iwaizumi slams the door shut before he can get in, prompting a noise of indignation.

“Shut up, Shittykawa.” He turns to you. “You sure you’re okay with the back?”

“Yeah, I prefer it.” You slip in and shut the door before either of them can protest further. In the backseat, it’s easier to avoid their probing gazes and careful questions. In the backseat, you can curl up without a seatbelt and hope it’s enough to kill you if Iwaizumi miraculously crashes.

You tune out the conversation from the front and lean your forehead against the window, pull your sleeves over your hands and curl in on yourself. Is that what you want, really? To die? It might be easier than existing, now, you think. Easier than facing the rest of your life with this unbearable weight on your chest.

A silence from the front seat catches your attention again, and you realize both men have turned to look at you. The car hasn’t moved.  _ Someone said something _ , you realize.

“What?”

“Seatbelt,” Iwaizumi instructs.

Thwarted again. “Oh, right.” You pull the seatbelt across you and click it in, feigning forgetfulness.

Oikawa looks like he might say something, but you just look at him with dead eyes and he shuts his mouth. Iwaizumi backs smoothly out of the parking space.

During the fifteen-minute drive to your apartment, you let your eyes drift closed, even though your mind won’t stop churning. The chill from the previous night hasn’t left you yet, not really, even though your doctor said you managed to avoid hypothermia.  _ Lucky, _ she’d said,  _ that it was an unseasonably warm night _ . Unseasonably warm for late March, that is, so still chilly enough to live in your bones even when the heat in the car is set to full blast. Lucky.

_ Lucky he didn’t take you far _ , said the cop.

_ Lucky you were able to call your friend _ , said the psychiatrist.

_ Lucky I’m so gentle _ , said the man as he rucked up your skirt to paw at your underwear.

“Lucky I thought ahead,” says Oikawa, turning around to dazzle you with a proud smile. “I ordered pizza to your place, it should get there when we do.”

“What kind?” you ask, because you know it’ll reassure him. It does, turning his dazzling smile mega-watt.

“Veggie with feta, your favorite.”

“Yum,” you try to sound enthusiastic, try to get your eyes to crinkle like they do when you’re smiling genuinely, but you can tell it falls a little flat by the way his eyes grow a degree more concerned.

“Or I could order yakisoba if you prefer? From that new place?”

“Pizza is fine, Tooru. Thank you.”

—

Pizza is not fine, your stomach decides halfway through your second slice. It roils and protests, prompting you to launch off the couch toward the bathroom with a hand over your mouth. Oikawa calls after you, putting his plate down on the coffee table as you slam and lock the bathroom door shut behind you.

You barely make it to the toilet in time, dropping to your knees and emptying your stomach dramatically. After a couple of good retches, you’re able to take big, gulping breaths and rest your forehead on folded arms.

“This is stupid,” you mutter to yourself, your voice dry and raspy. 

Oikawa knocks gently on the door. “You alright in there, angel?”

_ Am I alright? _ What a dumb question.

“Yeah,” you call, then cough painfully. “Just give me a minute.”

You dry heave once more, flush the toilet, then stand on shaky legs. You  _ hate _ throwing up. In the mirror, you look utterly exhausted. Your hair has been only half-heartedly dealt with, the circles under your eyes are truly impressive, and, of course, the bruises. After a minute of staring, you turn on the faucet and splash water onto your face, then gargle with mouthwash. At least the smell of mint is better than grease.

When you open the door, Oikawa jumps back as though he’d been standing with his nose pressed against it. You give him a quizzical look and go back to the couch. You can feel him following behind you, a question hovering in the air between you.

“D—”

“Can you not follow me like that, Tooru, please?” You turn to face him halfway, his question dying on his lips as your soft voice cuts across his. “I’m fine, I just probably should’ve started with something lighter. I think I have some leftover rice.”

You change course to the kitchen, but he’s already ahead of you, saying, “Let me get it for you, you just rest.”

Frustration seethes out of you, now, in your tense shoulders and clenched teeth.

“Oikawa.” His surname comes out harsher than intended, and he jolts to a stop, then turns with an expression like a kicked puppy. “I can get my own fucking rice. Stop coddling me, I’m not going to break. I-I, I just—” you suck in a breath and squeeze your eyes shut. “I don’t—”  _ Don’t know what to do next. _ “It’s the…”  _ The aching. _ “I feel like—” _ Like I have to prove to myself I can do it.  _ “Can’t you—?”  _ Can’t you see I don’t deserve this? _ “S-stop—”  _ Stop being so nice. _ “God,” you wail, crouching down to sit with your knees drawn to your chest and grasping your hair in both hands. You’re finally sobbing. They rip out of your throat painfully, ugly and childish, tears dripping down your nose and onto the floor.

Oikawa pads across the floor, slippered feet coming into your view. Then, he’s crouching down with one hand hovering by your shoulder. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, and you nod through your crying. His hands land on your shoulders. “Breathe with me. Ready? In…” he inhales audibly and you do your best to follow, air screaming past your raw throat. “And out…”

You follow his breathing for what feels like forever, hiccupping and sniffling loudly. Eventually, your hands relax and slip from your hair, finding a home on his shoulders.

“Tooru, I just…” you whisper, finally looking at him through wet lashes. “I feel so out of control.”

“What can I do?” He finally sits, too, crossing his legs and hunching so that he’s looking up at you. “I’m here for as long as you need me.”

You sniffle and wipe a sleeve across your nose. “I feel like I’m keeping you from your life.”

He murmurs your name and catches one hand in both of his. His fingers are hot against yours, and he brings them to press against his lips, eyes finding yours. “You are my life.”

You inhale wetly and cover your mouth with your other sleeve.

“I’m sorry if this is too much right now, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want to,” his voice is low, almost timid. “But it’s true. You are my life. Whatever it is that we’re doing, here, it… it’s the most important thing I think I’ve ever done.  _ Loving you _ is the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I am here as long as you’ll have me.”

New tears roll down your cheeks silently, your shaky breathing muffled by the cotton against your mouth. You close your eyes, but squeeze his fingers tight so he won’t go away. Something that feels like sweet relief mixes with the ache in your chest, setting your organs on fire like a match held to cardboard. This is what it’s always felt like to love Oikawa; like burning. The burning spreads from your chest out your limbs, shaking nerve endings awake until you’re shuddering all over, defrosting your icy bones. Everything feels a little more painful, a little more real, but at least you can feel it.

“Tooru,” you crack your eyes open and lower your hand from your mouth. “I’ll have you as long as you’ll stay.”

His eyes light up, sparklingly bright against his serious expression. “Can I hold you?”

You nod, and he opens his arms. You crawl into him, legs spreading around his torso and head tucking under his chin. He feels so familiar, solid against you as you tremble, arms wrapped around your back. You suppose you still want to die, but as long as he’s holding you like this, at least you’ll die warm.

—

You wake up at 4AM in your own bed, the sheets sticking to you uncomfortably. You sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes, looking out the window into the grey night of the city. Oikawa’s not here with you, though you vaguely remember him carrying you to bed. After a minute of absentminded blinking, you decide you won’t be getting back to sleep. You feel rested enough, anway — it was relatively early when you fell asleep.

The hallway’s dark, but there’s a light on in the living room when you peek in. It illuminates Oikawa stretched out on the couch, lips slightly parted in sleep. You tiptoe past him to the kitchen.

You silently retrieve a glass by the yellow light filtering in through the door and fill it from the tap. Though the water is cool and soothing, your throat hurts when you swallow. When the glass is empty, you press two fingers into the soft skin under your jaw to feel your pulse. It serves as evidence that you’re alive, and not a ghost haunting your own apartment in death.

You stand there for a long time, back against the counter, convincing yourself you’re alive. When the grey dawn begins to lighten the room, you finally sigh and open your fridge. There’s the leftover pizza, and rice. Eggs, bread, cheese, and milk. Assorted condiments.

You settle on scrambled eggs for breakfast, cracking them satisfyingly into your cast iron pan in the semi-dark. Haltingly, you feel the peace of being in your own home restore control to your grasp. It’s in the practiced dance around your kitchen, and the mundanity of tossing your eggshells in the compost by the sink, and the quiet way in which the world wakes up outside your window. When you finally slide buttered toast and scrambled eggs onto two of your blue ceramic plates, you’re thinking of how to last the rest of the day and not just the next five minutes.

“Tooru,” you call softly, approaching the couch holding both plates. When he doesn’t stir, you rest them on the coffee table and sit on the edge by his legs, then reach over to nudge his shoulder. “Tooru, I have breakfast.”

He finally moves, stretching his torso and scrunching his nose in a squeaky yawn. It’s almost too precious, and you smile down at him as he blinks awake. “G’morning.”

“Good morning,” you say, reaching out to hand him a plate as he sits up against the armrest and reaches for his glasses on the coffee table. He’s wearing a flannel pajama set; Iwaizumi must’ve gotten him clothes yesterday, as well. “Here’s breakfast.”

“Thank you, angel.” He grins at you, accepting the plate.

You tuck your feet under you and dig in.

Neither of you says anything as you eat, just basking in the nearness of each other. When he’s done, he leans forward and pulls you to him with searching eyes. You shift into him, leaning into him as you finish off your last bites of toast. His lips find your temple, lingering there as he breathes in the morning smell of you. You lean forward to stack your plate on his, then fully lay back across his chest.

“Tooru?” you murmur after several long minutes. Your eyes have drifted shut and your breathing has slowed to match his.

He hums in answer, rumbling through you.

“Thank you for coming, and thank you for staying.”

He shifts slightly, tightening his arms around you. “I’ll always come when you call.” His lips press to your forehead. “And I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”


End file.
